I realize there's some debate as to what month, exactly, is the worst for a sports fan in the Caesarian calendar. And while I consider myself to be a fair-minded person, anyone who says it isn't November is wrong. Like, DVDA wrong.
I think I'm going a little nuts without the metronome of the baseball season ticking in the background. Even though I don't really like the Diamondbacks, I grew comfortable listening to Mark Grace and Darren Sutton, two very capable and funny broadcasters, at least three times a week while I tooled around the house. I became used to the endless flood of ESPN chats, five stories a day from Baseball Prospectus and 20 or so daily items on ShysterBall. I'll miss updates about the prospects that I acquired for veterans in my keeper league, and arguments over exactly when everyone else (I'm looking at you, Bud Black) is going to realize that Trevor Hoffman isn't the best reliever on the Padres anymore, and might even be No. 3 at this point.
In short, baseball consumed so much of my down time that I never really noticed that I spend an inordinate amount of my life at home, alone. This isn't to say I'm some hermit; it's just that I'm single and I don't have enough money to go drinking with friends every night, nor do they.
Now, I begin thinking about how nice it was having a broad around the house, if only so I had someone to make fun of when bored (I'm clearly an awesome boyfriend [theoretically] and it's stunning that a line hasn't formed in front of Chez Diesel composed entirely of quivering, nubile virgins). And it's not like leaving the house is much of an option; Phoenix, even in great weather, isn't really a go-outside sorta place. I mean, you can go hiking, but I can't say that without smirking. I could go golfing, but none of my friends here are really into it. I could go swimming, but I've never been a huge fan of public bathing places, owing to the fact that I have familiarized myself with MRSA.
In other words, November just sucks.
Worry not, TGWNA denizens; I will not fall into the arms of some crazy bitch just to cure boredom. Like any great athlete (critic), I realize that when the pressure's highest, sex can only get in the way. I will monk-out in an effort to make at least one post a week in this here space, even though I'm not really sure what I'm going to post about. Does anyone really want to commiserate with me on the death of the 4-6? Football's out. While I could probably write a lot about soccer, I doubt anyone here will be interested enough to get past snarky comments about euro-trash and hurled bags of urine. We won't even pretend to care about the NBA until playoff time, and even then I question the league's ability to provide a great deal of mill-worthy grist. I don't know where inspiration is going to come from, which probably means I'm going to force it. But, at least I know I'll be a better read than Plaschke.
Ci vediamo, as my people say. Parlermo presto.